My heart of excess and hollowed bones of flight
float in empty spaces, filling in meaning where there is none.
I overread and underestimate intentions,
leaving me with nothing but words, disarrayed.
Still, I line my windows with forget-me-nots and sage,
decorating hopeful memory and
cleaning the air of old ghosts.
If the beloved is an excuse for the poet to talk of themselves,
I will create imaginary lovers until I understand.
Porcelain Prose 